Toy Soldiers
by PaperFortress
Summary: No, no, said the Tiger, I'll have none of these. I'll eat me the soldier, I'll take him down with ease.


_But the battle rages on for toy soldiers. - Martika_

* * *

It had been one hundred days since John Watson had witnessed his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, jump to his death. It had been one hundred days of therapy, one hundred days of pain, one hundred days of nightmares, one hundred days with his cane. The fine tremor in his left hand had set up again, but was usually not noticeable unless one looked really closely. People didn't seem to want to look really closely, though. After all, what else was there to see, except a too-thin, too-haunted man whose eyes were far too old for the rest of him? John looked really closely at _them_, though. It was almost like a twisted tribute to his friend; he would notice things, point them out, and those around him would stop and stare in pity at the poor, broken man. It was times like these that made John realise just how Sherlock felt. It was times like these, when John connected little pieces, little random pieces of the world around him that he wondered, 'how can no one else see it?', then realise that once, he didn't see it either. It was times like these when he felt so, so alone, because Sherlock wasn't there to share his newfound discovery. It was times like these when he realise how truly alone _Sherlock _had felt, because the world was so, _so _slow, and he had been all alone. It was times like these when John wished he had run up to that roof and jumped after his friend.

Occasionally, Lestrade would phone him up and they'd go down to the pub, drinking and talking. John never fully remembered those nights, but he would always wake up in his room, caringly tucked into his bed, his cane leaning against the nightstand. Mrs. Hudson would cook him dinners and clean up, though she still regularly insisted she wasn't his housekeeper, dear. Even Donovan and Anderson were compassionate - as compassionate as two creatures such as they could be, at least. Mycroft was…well, Mycroft. The black, government-issued car that he was used to being "kidnapped" in now took him everywhere, from his therapy sessions to the grocery. John supposed that was Mycroft's was of being kind and showing support.

Mostly, he welcomed this help, this support, but on days when his moods were black, his thought frantic and mind weary from not-enough peaceful rest, he would turn on them, firing off harsh words about Lestrade's wife, or Mrs. Hudson's herbal soothers, or Donovan and Anderson's relationship, Anderson in general, and Mycroft's car. He would attempt to drive them all away, wanting to be alone with his thoughts, his memories, and his pain. He wanted them to leave him alone, just leave him alone, because he was fine, he was a big boy, he was a _soldier_, and he didn't need their help, or their pity, or their kindness, so just go away and stay away. They wouldn't, though. They would give him space but then come back, offering their assistance once more. He was truly grateful and apologetic at times like this, but they always waved him off, saying it was to be was quite lucky to have friends like these. He was quite _unlucky _to not have the one that mattered most.

It was on one of his bad days that John came home to find a rather large bouquet of tiger lilies sitting on the table. A fast-building rage coursed through his veins as he grit his teeth. Did they not understand the he was _fine? _That, just because it had been one hundred days since the suicide of his friend, he was not going to go jump off a building himself? That he didn't _need_ or _want_ them to help him, or be kind to him, or be compassionate? That he didn't care about their pity? That he didn't _care?_John seized the vase of flowers, hurtling it against the wall with all the strength his bad shoulder could muster, welcoming the pain afterwards. The glass exploded against the wall, tiny shards sprinkling down into the carpet like a tiny rainstorm. The lilies fell by the wayside, petals bent and damaged, stems bruised. The small piece of parchment attached to them, however, caught his attention quite well. For a moment, he considered leaving it, letting Mrs. Hudson pick it up and throw it in the bin with the rest of it. Something drew him to the paper, though, a little niggling voice that sounded a lot like Sherlock whispering in the back of his mind, telling him to go to it, read it, deduce it, then tear it apart and burn it. , as always, obeyed, boots crunching over the shards of glass to reach the note. Some small, detached part of his brain noted that he would have to clean one shoe more thoroughly than he would the other, as his limp would make more glass embed into one than it would the other. He shook that random thought away as he knelt to pick up the note, flipping it around to read it quickly. He paled as he read the words, flinging the small card as far away from himself as he could as he staggered backwards, the tremble from his left hand spreading throughout his entire body. His eyes grew wide and his breathing quickened as his mind - and heart - raced.

_Tiger, Tiger, who will you eat?  
Perhaps the one with the mousy smile?  
Or perhaps the one who likes scrubbing tile?  
Perhaps the one who thinks thinking's a chore?  
Perhaps the one whose wife is a whore?  
No, no, said the Tiger, I'll have none of these,  
I'll eat me the soldier, I'll take him down with ease.  
_


End file.
